It Started with the Eye
by happyharper13
Summary: Riley reflects on her day, life in general, Greg Sanders' tight pants, and being held hostage by a high 14-year-old. Post-ep for 'No Way Out'. Greg/Riley Mostly-Unrequited Sexual Tension. Riley Character Study.


Warning: written in first-person. I would love to hear your thoughts as to whether the first-person works reasonably well here. I had originally written this as part of a long character study/angst/romance story, but, given recent S10 spoilers, I'm leaning away from that right now.

Spoilers for 'No Way Out' and 'Miscarriage of Justice'

**Eye**

It had been a rough case. A _very_ rough case. I could see all of the looks they were giving me.

_Yeah. I know. _

I don't think they quite knew how to broach the topic.

_So... you were just held at gunpoint by a crazy drugged-out fourteen-year-old. So, how was that? Score any extra PCP?_

The last line, clearly, was all in my imagination. Or rather, in my past. And don't worry, I promise that I am not alluding to any deep, dark past (or at least not to one I'm aware of), but rather to far too many of my perpetually drugged out guy friends from back home.

_St Louis._

I miss it sometimes. A lot. But, really, it was time to move on. After Chris's death, it had been a long time coming. We never understood why he did it. It had pushed an already -- let's just go with 'nonconformist' here -- group of friends on the road to something else, to so many roads to so many somethings else. And me? I was more than just his friend.

Yeah. We all knew it was time to move on. We all did move on, in different ways. Ricky started doing drugs. Marcus would've started doing drugs, had he not _already_ been doing drugs. So, that option exhausted, he instead opted to simply do _more _drugs. He added a few new hallucinogenics to his extracurricular activities.

I rarely see him sober these days. Rumor has it he's got at least a few of Latin Kings, or Cripps, or another one of those gangs on his tail.

Sometimes you just have to let go. And hanging out with druggies isn't exactly the wisest move for a cop, at least unless you're arresting them. I never quite felt guilty hanging around them, knowing they were doing drugs. If I knew they had killed someone, then I probably would've felt differently. But I never felt entirely like a walking oxymoron, at least until a few months before I left. That was when Marcus lost it. He did too many, too fast.

I saw the look on Gary's face when he came in to investigate the OD. Gary used to be my partner, back when I was a beat cop. He saw the ambulances -- along with the mayhem an obviously drugged out Marcus was causing -- and stopped to help. Then he saw me.

Me, not in uniform. Clearly here for some reason. Maybe a neighbor? I could see the hope in his eyes that that was the case. It wasn't. I had been there. I had been there when Marcus almost overdosed, and then, in his drugged-out rage, ran out of the house and pounced on a helpless onlooker. He was lucky -- actually we were _all_ lucky -- that the poor terrified woman didn't press charges. She was -- and hopefully still is -- a churchgoing woman who believed -- hopefully still believes -- in forgiveness. That and I was a cop, and convinced her of what a pain in the ass it is to go through with a trial.

When Gary saw me that night -- that look of surprise, pity, acquiescence and so many other things, none of them good, on his face -- I knew it was time to get out.

He told me as much. Understood where I was coming from. He had done the same thing, and left behind his California troubles, he told me in a moment of surprising openness. Though we'd been partners, we'd never been big on emotional heart-to-hearts about the events of our regular lives. We were cops, after all. We were guys. Or, at least, he was a guy -- still is, again, as far as I know, and I can't imagine him as anything else. I'm not a guy, but I'm a cop. I've been told that I have the mentality of a cop. Businesslike, blunt, closed-off. Not so big on wishy-washy talk about feelings. I may be a woman, but I bleed blue, and that blue blood has always -- at least as long as I've been a cop -- come before any gender-specific anatomical differences.

The only real influence that those differences have on my life is Chris. If I hadn't been a woman, then we probably wouldn't have been what we were. And it wouldn't have hurt as much when we lost him.

I still wish I were a guy sometimes.

There would be less drama here. At CSI. I'm the _new girl_. And people always find reasons to hate _new girls_ like me. I'm a woman encroaching on male territory -- a male-dominated field _and_ I'm a bitch when I turn a guy down. The cops here, for the most part, don't seem too much like sexist pigs, which is nice. I haven't gotten quite so many leers, and I've only gotten a few date offers. One proposition, which I gladly took up. It was a rough night -- the kind where you really want, no _need_ to forget everything -- and nothing pushes _everything_ away like some hard, mindless, nameless fucking. Excuse my French. Anyway, it -- or rather _he_ -- was a beat cop in for a few days from Henderson. And he looked nothing like Chris. Light blue eyes, as opposed to Chris's deep brown ones.

Which brings me back to the present. We're all standing around, and I've been tuning out the conversation as we huddle around Catherine's Denali, in the middle of suburbia. I'm not entirely sure why we're still standing here, aside from the fact that Catherine and Nick haven't technically dismissed us.

I think it's because nobody feels particularly inclined to move on quite yet. Even though both of the CSIs involved -- that is, me and Ray -- are relatively new, this team still is, by some miracle (or is it a curse?), a family, and I think multiple people, probably those most shaken by the team's recent losses, still need a little more reassurance that nobody else is going to disappear.

They need to see Ray's and my faces, and probably each others' a few more times before they can go home nightmare-free, or as nightmare-free as is possible at this point.

Chris's death still gives me nightmares, and I know there's something about this team -- about the way Greg talks about Sara and the way Catherine talks about Warrick and Grissom -- that should tell me that I'm not the only one to lose someone I loved that way. Sara Sidle isn't dead, but, from the way Greg talks about her, you'd think she was. I've seen pictures of her. She's pretty. And, apparently, a heartbreaker. I knew Grissom, and only in the months after he left. I can't say he seemed like the happiest fellow. And I see the way Greg drifts off when he talks about her. I'm not a nosy person, but I can't help wondering what she meant to him. 'Best friends' is the rationale I've heard, but I can't help thinking it was something more than that, at least to him.

And then there's the eye. What started me on this train of thought. I'm not normally a rambler. My thought process doesn't generally meander quite so much. Maybe some of fumes from the PCP lab really did get into my system.

Anyway, the eye.

Technically, it's really _above_ the eye.

Bruising. I got hit. By a crazy fourteen-year-old.

To be honest, I'm glad he was a fourteen-year-old. I've never been hit by a full-grown man. Sure, I've been smacked in jest by some of my guy friends. And, trust me, I smack right back. The fact that I'm _not_ on drugs and _don't_ spend my life inside, wasting away on my living room couch playing video games and watching porn, probably contributes to the fact that I can hit right back with equal force and better aim. On occasion, when we really got mad at each other, we'd reach a level of violence. But never much. Maybe a slap in the face. My friends aren't bad people.

But I've never been smacked, in anger, by a full-grown man, and I don't want to. Then I'd be a woman getting smacked around by a man, and that's not what I want. I like being one of the guys, and, to be honest, I can't imagine being any other way.

Greg is staring at the space above my eye again. Some combination of fear, pity and puzzlement. I catch his gaze and smile crazily.

His eyes dart away with guilt. He seems to think I feel worse than I do about it -- like I'm ashamed or upset about my scar. But I'm not. I like scars. I have 17 scars on my body, all of which -- okay, _most_ of which -- I take great pride in. I can't say that I'm proud of all of them because it seems slightly questionable to be proud of a scar I got because of the intelligent decision to jump down a flight of stairs backwards and with my eyes closed. And the one I got riding a grocery cart down the hill next to my middle school. (It flipped once it reached the street at the bottom of the hill. As far as Marcus was concerned, it was 'the coolest thing ever!' His words, not mine. He tried doing the same thing, but sadly failed.)

Ray is looking seriously at it. I already know that the doctor in him -- the one that may or may not have factored into saving our asses today -- is worried about the possibility of a concussion. But he already checked it out. So did the medics. Possible slight concussion. Emphasis on the word _slight_.

Nick sneaks surreptitious glances at it. He seems worried, but afraid to say anything. Catherine is far more subtle. I only _feel_ her eyes on me, and know they're there because I know there's a mother hen in Catherine inching to break out any second. To be honest, I'm slightly surprised it hasn't broken out yet. She has a daughter. Lindsey. I'm not even gonna bother commenting on that. Their relationship is... interesting. Let's just go with that word.

I glance up, slightly surprised. Greg again, but this time he hasn't torn his gaze away. I notice the others beginning to shift away. Catherine is the first, setting the example for the rest of us. It's a very clear example:

_Go home._

We have the day off because of the situation. The whole night shift, or at least all of the CSIs.

Ray goes first. I've seen him toy with a ring on his finger. I've never heard him mention a wife, though he doesn't seem terribly inclined toward talking about personal things. His restraint isn't the same as a cop's restraint. He isn't hard and cold the way Gary was, or the way Nick and Greg both seem close to at times. Ray's restraint is different -- far more like Grissom's. You can tell they're both intellectuals. Neither would last as cops.

I always think it's interesting to puzzle over what someone might have ended up being, had they not joined the force. Grissom said he was a trained entomologist, though I can see him as something else. He kind of reminds me of a shrink sometimes, albeit one with very poor interpersonal skills. In retrospect, I don't think that's what makes a good shrink. Then again, my impression of shrinks is rather low. Thanks a million, mom and pops. Anyway, were he not a CSI (or whatever it is he is right now, which might just be a honeymooner), I can imagine Grissom as a professor.

Ditto for Ray. Ray's had three careers prior to this one -- pathologist/physician, author and professor -- and I can see him in either of those. However, I can also imagine him getting along well in the corporate world. His calm, soothing demeanor would, I imagine, make him a good manager of some sort, and I can even see him as an intimidating CEO. There's just something about him that exudes quiet, but very conscious power.

Nick is a cop. One hundred percent cop. I can't imagine him as anything else. He reminds me a lot of Gary. Very restrained. Definitely not big on the interpersonal. If I had to picture him as something else, it would probably be military, which, personality-wise, isn't that different from the force. Then again, on occasion I get the sense of him as a very sweet not-quite-paternal figure. The rare occasions I've seen him interact with kids, something special has always shone in his eyes. He has pictures of all of his nephews and nieces in his locker, and I feel sorry that he hasn't had kids of his own yet. It's hard to find many spousal possibilities when working night shift. I was lucky to have Chris. And that all of my friends were night owls.

Anyway, I've heard that Nick had a somebody -- apparently a prostitute -- back in the day. I walked away when I heard the beginnings of that rumor. Some things are just none of anyone's business, and that's one of them. Especially when the person you love dies. Nobody gets to come in and gossip about it. That's what I like about this job. We go in, find the evidence, and then we leave. We don't have to deal with too much of the talking, or too much of the interrogating, or too much of the grief. Anyway, I can imagine Nick as a teacher. Almost. I think.

Catherine seems very professional. I've heard some very nasty rumors about her background and, again, I turned away. I honestly think she could have been anything. With her personality, and just... street smarts, people smarts... I don't think any career would be totally unfeasible. She's a strong woman who knows how to get stuff done.

And then there's Greg. I can't quite pin him down. He's really nice. He seems like a normal, good guy. For some reason, I can imagine him being a mailman. We always had a really nice mailman in our neighborhood. He'd remember our names, and tell us jokes. Greg doesn't make many jokes, but he has a pretty spiffy wit that he seems to let out on occasion. It's a pity he doesn't let it out more often.

I glance around to see that most of the shift has headed out. Nick mumbled something to Catherine -- gesturing at me with an attempt at subtlety. Greg seems caught between watching their exchange and trying to hold his own conversation with me by only moving his eyebrows. In the end, he rolls his eyes at the two not-quite-bickering lead CSIs and turns his head back toward me. He gives me a tight-lipped smile before clearing his throat.

Nick and Catherine look to him, and then to me. They seem to get that we've witnessed at least the nonverbal aspects of their conversation, and said aspects were rather telling.

Catherine sighs, seeming to relent. "Riley, are you sure you're alright? That's quite a shiner you've got there."

Ah. Of course. The eye again.

"I'm fine," I saw with a smile. I even give her a rather enthusiastic thumbs-up. Greg stifles a laugh. Nick gives me a skeptical look, but seems to give in. He follows Catherine toward wherever they parked their Denalis, some sort of understanding passing between them.

"Well then," Greg says, shrugging his shoulders and widening his eyes in an anticipating half-shrug. He glances away, quickly, at Nick and Catherine. He seems to finally make the connection that their departure means it's just the two of us standing here in the middle of suburbia.

He glances down, for a longer moment. Now it's just awkwardness. It's hard to just finish the day and go off on your merry way after someone's just saved your life. After you've just been playing with guns, and other things one -- even a police officer -- is not supposed to play with.

But the awkwardness ends when Greg looks up with a mischievous smirk.

"Nice work, Sanders," he says. "I do believe you've earned your wings."

I chuckle. Nobody had really brought up the situation once Ray and I were out. We were off the case. We had a confession on tape. We had it solved. And then we had the day off. It was a 'job well done' pat on the back from Catherine, and that was it. I can't say I'm not surprised that Greg is the first to really mention what happened.

"Thanks, Riley." I repeat the name swap that seems to have saved our asses today. It was a lucky coincidence that we'd had that drill today -- that we'd already learned how much a wrong name could stealthily give away.

He glares.

"You're lucky I go by my middle name," I point out.

He looks up, slightly startled at the idea of such a name swap. "What's your first name?"

"MiMi."

Greg looks at me strangely.

He catches the hint when I laugh. "Nice one," he says, laughing too now. "I'm trying to imagine that kid's response if you'd tried to call me that."

I start laughing -- slightly more loudly this time -- but stop suddenly when I actually try to imagine the picture -- with fourteen-year-old Frankie still pointing a gun at Ray and my heads as Ray fights to save Reggie, Frankie's cousin, from the glass impaled in his chest. It was frightening.

Greg stops laughing and looks thoughtfully at me. He seems to have caught on to the touchy subject. He says nothing, but his look reads remorse. I must say, Greg has quite a way of conveying messages with his eyebrows. And eyes too, I suppose. But his eyebrows stand out at me as unusually emotive.

"So," he begins. "Got plans for after shift?"

"Got any ideas for mind numbing?"

He rolls his eyes.

We both speak at the same time -- "The diner."

We chuckle and make for the Denali. Conveniently enough, we came to the scene together.

------------

Cops weave around the diner. Greg insists once again that they're giving us the stink-eye. Apparently, they're just giving _him_ the stink-eye. The only guy that's looking as me is _not_ wearing an antagonistic expression. Such is the life of the female cop. Woe is me, having that many fit, macho men giving me a very-different-not-stink-eye.

After five beers, I start making eyes back at one of them. Tall, slim, lithe. Pretty eyes and ears that kind of stick out.

Oops. That's Greg. Was that really only five beers? Or six. Or something. Whatever it takes to get Frankie the crazy, gun-wielding fourteen-year-old's voice out of my head. And Chris's. And the smell of that PCP out of my mouth. It's not quite a smell, but it's not quite a taste either. And I know it way too well.

Greg laughs. Apparently, he just switched seats. Not quite an excuse for thinking he was a whole, separate person.

"You're a very subtle flirt, Riley," he says with another not-quite-drunk laugh.

I glare. Then I realize that he's been sipping the same beer the whole time. I think. Damn you, Greg, and your conscientiousness.

"I'm gonna call a cab," Greg tells me. I honestly can't tell if he's slurring or not.

He gets up and I follow. He moves toward the Denali and I don't understand. "Getting my kit," he explains, sensing my confusion.

He opens the door and rummages around for something. I don't know what he's rummaging around for because, to be honest, what I'm _not_ looking at are his hands. And, dear Levi gods, wherever you are, thank you for inventing such tight jeans.

Greg stands up again and raises his eyebrow at me. And I must, in all my drunkenness, reiterate to myself the wonders that are Greg's eyebrows. Very expressive. Framing some very attractive eyelashes. I don't care how strange it sounds -- there's something _very_ attractive about a nice pair of long, dark eyelashes.

"Riley?"

"Greg!" And I know I've got a pretty damn ridiculously drunk-looking smile plastered to my face right now. But I can't stop myself. And the tight jeans are calling me.

I move forward and Greg thinks I'm falling -- wobbling or something in all of my drunken stupidity. But, I can assure you, I am not. That, my friends, is a lunge. The tight jeans and their contents are in my hands.

"Riley!"

I look up as Greg grabs my shoulders and pulls me off. He seems somewhat speechless.

"I think you've had too much to drink."

"But..." I didn't expect to get rejected. But somewhere in the last six months, I _know_ there's been some mutual flirtation.

So I lunge again. And I do believe he's happy to see me.

He smiles at me -- though it's close-lipped. "Riley," he says again. I really like how he says my name. "Riley, let's --"

I find another way to occupy his mouth. Being the very courteous man that he is, he replies in the same fashion. Our mouths exchange thoughts on the subject, and I can taste the Corona in his mouth. He got it with a lime. I do not approve, but his mouth tastes good anyway. Next time, I might just go for a lime of my own, to remember the flavor. And, as my hand has again discovered, he is indeed happy to see me.

And then he grabs me by the shoulders again. "Riley." He's out of breath and, as my hand quickly ascertains, stillhalf-hard, which definitely diminishes the weight behind his next words. "Riley, we can't do this. You're drunk and you're going to regret this in the morning."

"I think I had enough beers that _this_" -- I gesture between the two of us, taking the opportunity to grope him again -- "is not what I'll be busy regretting." I'm fairly certain that that's the longest string of words I've gotten out coherently in quite a few hours. Make that since I got out of that basement.

"Riley, you're gonna regret this. We shouldn't do this."

I pout. I was never big on pouting, but I still know how. "You don't want this?" I ask, more emotional than intended. "Because you're sending some mixed... whatever they're called." I gesture around aimlessly. "Signals. Mixed signals. That's what this is."

Greg sighs. "I'm flattered, Riley. Really. But you're drunk. And I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

I snort. "You taking advantage of _me_? Nobody takes advantage of me."

He hesitates. "Riley... You're --"

"I saved your ass at the paintball drill today," I sagely point out.

He rolls his eyes. "And what would my poor ass do without you."

"It would go home to an empty bedroom to jack off in the shower without having gotten any?" I guess.

Greg looks shocked. "Riley!"

"What?"

He seems to remain stunned, moving his mouth in strange fish-like motions. I would, of course, be happy to find alternate ways to occupy his mouth.

"You're really..." he starts again. "Blunt." That's his final statement. "And..." Okay, maybe not final.

I laugh. He laughs too. "What?" I ask.

He smiles. He's got a very nice mouth, although I'm fairly certain that I already noticed that at some point this evening. "And very hilarious," he says, and I smile.

"Why thank you, Greg Sanders."

He shakes his head in amusement. I refrain from lunging again. I'm not sure where my sudden burst of self control came from.

The cab pulls up.

"Let's get you home," he mutters, laughter still in his voice. "Remind me never to let you get drunk again."

"I don't think you're in a position to _let_ me do anything," I counter.

He continues shaking his head in laughter he clearly can't hold back.

Sadly, the cab drops us off at different locations, as Greg ensured. Nonetheless, it was the start of a beautiful friendship.

And by friendship, I mean some wonderful flirtation. Oh, for the joys of unrequited sexual tension. And, of course, tight jeans.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews would be very much appreciated ;) Also, if you haven't placed nominations for the CSI Fanfic Awards, please do! Nominations finish on Aug. 25, and there still aren't that many Greg, Riley, Nick/Greg or Riley/Greg stories up (right now, it looks like there aren't even enough stories to warrant an actual category for Riley/Greg). If you're a Riley fan, a Greg fan or a Greg/Riley fan, please make sure your favorite characters and/or pairing is represented. There are quite a few really great stories for all three categories on this site, and I'd be happy to recommend some ;)


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